In walks the well-worn face of a man. A bearded father, with arms full of baby. 

Long arms sun painted and sturdy, wrapping so warmly, a blond haired boy, just woken from a nap. 

And the blue eyes are asking, and the face is contorting, and the shriek is born of a trembling mouth. 

And the Father looks stoically

And the mother looks reluctantly

And the boy cries openly for milk

An exchange without words, for nurturance of a different sort, before back in the brown arms, the white baby goes.